7 SHADES OF BLUE
by foxdvd
Summary: Just when is too much just too much? How much can he take until he finally breaks down? And who's going to be there to pick up the pieces? F/A
1. Aquamarine

**A/N:**After I POSTED "3 Tries" (which I SWEAR I'll finish soon), I got some nice PM from some Flack/Angell shippers saying that they really liked the story, despite the fact that it was going to be a Fiesta pairing in the end. Someone was even kind enough to pace it on their C2 archive, and for that I'm pretty thankful.

Guess me and the muse felt we owed you this…

X xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx X

She sat, quietly, waiting for him.

Not because she had to, mind you, but because she wanted to. Because she was worried about him. He had come in on his day off because "something had come up with Danny" which she knew was Flack speak for "I'm worried", which in turn worried her. He had also mentioned going for an Irish coffee, which she also knew meant he was this close of actually needing to get wasted in order to move on, which was even more worrisome.

But what kept her sitting there inside her car, getting all sorts of weird looks from her fellow officers and not giving a damn, was the fact that he'd called her "Jess" in public.

It had been a private joke going on for several years now, ever since she had joined the force. She had signed up to visit the kids at the Cancer Pediatric Ward at the hospital, something most cops did at least once a year, and since her visit was scheduled for the Halloween festivities, she had been asked to dress up as a Disney character. Not being one to have frilly dresses lying around waiting for the occasion to arise, she settled on dressing up as Jessie, the yodeling cowgirl in Toy Story 2. Her nieces loved the character and she assumed they couldn't be too far off from the rest of the kids.

She had been having a good time, and the kids seemed to, as well, as she read them a story, when they all began to tell her that "Woody" had arrived and if she thought he'd brought "Bullseye" with him. She'd turn around to find a mildly-surprised, mildly-embarrassed "Woody" standing at the doorway, the deepest blue eyes she'd ever seen winking at her.

He had never brought it up until their third case together. He had had to call her in on her day off, and was mildly amused to see her arrive in sweat pants, t-shirt and braids. It was the braids that started the teasing, and he began calling her "Jessie" just to annoy her. She retaliated by calling him "Woody", which he seemed to find amusing as hell, something to brag about around the bullpen, until she threatened with spilling the beans on the real origin of the name, dispelling all notions of sexual prowess on his part. The jesting had gone on and off ever since, thus "Jessie" and "Woody" becoming some sort of secret code between them.

He'd call her Jess while on the basketball court and he'd addressed her as Jess in emails and text messages and those little notes they passed back and forth while waiting during trial duty. He'd call her Jess at 3 am when either one of them got far too wasted to make it home safely and needed safe transport or a closer place to crash for the remainder of the night.

But he'd never, ever call her Jess in the precinct. Or in front of others. And that worried her more than everything else put together.

She had diligently booked Rikki Sandoval, filled in the necessary paper work, and been mute witness of the exchange between Flack and Messer and was now patiently waiting for Flack to exit the building so she could drive him home, make sure he didn't drank more than necessary, make sure he got in bed in one piece and keep vigil on his couch. Just like he'd done when she found out the guy she'd been seeing for six months, the guy who had hinted at proposal, was indeed a jerk who was married to a wife who'd deliver his firstborn in less than two weeks time. She'd gotten absolutely wasted and had actually toyed with the idea of hunting the bastard down. She'd have, had it not been for Flack, who'd kept her locked inside her place and the gun far from her reach until she was sober enough to think straight. Then he'd gone and looked for the guy and had given the SOB a "piece of his mind" which, she was sure, included a closed fist or two.

So she waited.

She slid out of the car as soon as she saw him standing at the top of the stairs and gently called out his name. He whirled around, saw it was her and tried to put up a brave smile, but knew she could see behind the façade. He didn't complain when she got behind the wheel, and he didn't bother to ask where they were going. He trusted her beyond those simple matters and he had long since gone past the point of caring. All he wanted that night was to get away from it all, how he managed to do so lacked importance.

They got to his place, and it was a given she'd go upstairs and spend the night, if necessary. He led the way in silence, and she followed, certain there will be enough time for words later on. He went straight into the bathroom and soon the shower was running; she went into the kitchen, and soon the kettle was boiling. He reached for the soap; she reached for the sugar. He slid on an old t-shirt; she poured in an aged whisky.

By the time he went back into the living room, his mug was set on the coffee table, and she was sitting on the couch, already sipping hers.

They sat in silence while they drank their coffee. She was patiently waiting for him and he knew it, but stalled. He wasn't sure where to start, so he chose neutral ground and started asking about her latest case. From there he went about the usual rumor mill around the precinct, the latest news, the Yankees, the weather… when he ran out of unimportant things to say he stood up and took both their mugs to the kitchen. He returned later with two tumblers filled halfway. Handing her one, he went and stood by the window.

He looked out of the window, as he pensively sipped his drink, seemingly lost in thought. To a casual onlooker, the attitude would be interpreted as a cue to leave. She knew him well enough to know this was merely the preamble. Soon enough, he'd simply sigh and start talking.

And when he finally did, it was as if the floodgates had burst open.

He spoke about Ruben and Danny and Rikki and how it hurt to see his friend hurting and how scared he had been thinking Danny was going to be shot by a grieving mother and how unfair he felt the whole thing was to begin with.

He told her about how more and more often he felt disillusionment on their profession, and how he was loosing faith in human kind and how he had considered quitting and leaving New York behind and getting away from it all. She had to bite back her own opinion and not burst out in denials when he mentioned there were days when he felt he had lost his love for the job.

He mentioned how sometimes age got to him and he began questioning how he had gotten into the third decade of his life and not have the life he had dreamed of mere fifteen years prior. He had somehow assumed he'd follow his father's footsteps from A to Z and somewhere along the line he had lost his way. By the time the 30th birthday of the Senior had rolled by, he had been already married and had a couple of kids and was well on his way of becoming Lieutenant before reaching 40. Junior, on the other hand, had yet to master the art of keeping a relationship going on long enough to go out for a 5th date.

He admitted to the terrible crush he had had, still had, on Stella Bonasera, and how she had gently and caringly thanked him and declined. She had told him she was still years away from trusting herself to love another man again, that she wasn't really sure she'd ever allow herself to trust enough to love again, and that he'd be better off falling for someone else, someone he'd be able to settle down with and have kids with. In short, someone other than herself. He'd taken the rejection like a man, which meant it hurt like hell but he had not let it shown and had tried to move on. Tried being the operative word here, as he was certain he'd always have some sort of schoolboy-turned-man's crush on her.

And after he had talked for what seemed like hours, he finally sat down. This time around, it was her who had taken the tumblers and refilled them, taking the time to try and digest everything he had just told him. She was shocked at his admission of not loving the job as much as he used to and relieved that he was getting over his crush on Stella. Not because Stella wasn't worth of him, quite the opposite, but because she didn't want to see her friend suffer. She, of all people, knew just how badly it hurt to love someone close to you and not be able to either tell them or do anything about it.

She went back to the living room and found him sitting there, remote control in hand, TV turned off, staring into nothingness, absolutely lost in his own thoughts. She quietly placed his drink in front of him and moved to the window to drink hers. Did it hurt to know he was still in love with another woman? Yes. Could she do anything about it? No, and therein laid the crux of the problem. She'd continue to play the "lil' sister" role, the "one of the guys" part she knew all too well how to play, her feelings be damned.

She had often wondered if she ought to tell him, or at least, hint at, how she felt, but time and time again she found a good reason to bite the words back. After the stakeout duty and the whole "I'm sure the boys noticed" game busting line, she had had a glimmer of hope, but he'd never made a move again, never mentioned it again, and she began to believe that she might have misinterpreted the whole thing.

She looked down and was mildly surprised to see her drink gone. Looking over her shoulder she could see that Flack was still sitting on the couch, lost within himself; the drink, untouched and forgotten, still on the table in front of him. She decided he was going to be okay, at least for the time being, having exorcised his demons for the night. She made her way back to the kitchen and placed the empty tumbler on the counter next to the sink. Without looking back, she walked to the door and opened the door. His voice froze her in place.

"Stay"

X xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx X

**A/N:**Wow… this is so NOT going the way I had originally envisioned! Even I am wondering where this one is headed!


	2. Cornflower

**A/N: Sorry for the delay. Health issues got in the way. ****Now that I'm back from the hospital, let's see where the muse takes us, shall we? Gazillion thanks to the people who will read whatever I post, putting their trust in me even when I'm trying my luck in uncharted waters… or unpopular ships. Thanks as well for those who've stood their ground and refused to read this… and have been kind enough to let me know the reason why.**

**X xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx X**

She closed the door silently, merely retracing her steps until she was back at the couch. Seeing his still untouched drink, she made an attempt to grab it, but he beat her to it. Flack stood up, tumbler in hand, worrying his lower lip, pondering his next action. She could see the slight tremble of the square jaw and her heart went out to him once more, her silent oath to do anything to help him get trough this loud enough to echo inside her head.

He downed half the drink in one gulp. He watched the remaining contents for a minute or two, and hurled the glass across the room, watching it shatter against the wall. It was then that he finally crumbled; his spirit first, his body following close by.

She had considered for a brief moment retrieving the shards of broken glass, but forgot all about it when she heard his first sob. Silently sliding to the floor next to him, she cradled his upper body against her own. She was soon rocking him slowly back and forth, cooing mindless words, just as she had seen her mother do with her father and her brothers; just as her mother had done with her the first time she had had to kill someone in the line of duty.

He clung to her, desperation coating his every move. He clung to her like a lost child, feeling finally safe back in his mother's arms. He allowed himself to feel safe in her arms, and soon his shoulders were heaving and his tears flowing towards the crook of her neck.

She felt the wetness and continued to gently run her hands through his hair; she continued to murmur soothing words to the man huddled next to her on the floor. Comfort was hardly found in their line of work, and if that was all she'd ever be to him, she welcomed the small chance with open arms.

His tears subsided, but the turmoil of emotions still brewed close to the surface and he gave in to them, acting on instinct rather then rationality, the longing to belong deep and strong, overbearing everything else. The emotions bottled inside for so long had not been depleted by his weeping, and like the overflowed river, they sought the easiest way out: desire.

When she first felt the brush of his lips against her neck she thought it was accidental. When she felt it again, she thought it was just wishful thinking. The third time around, she was certain that he was actually nipping at her neck, and that the hands that had started out seeking comfort were now touching her in ways she'd only dreamed of thus far.

His name on her lips was a question in itself, and he silenced it best as he knew. The moment his mouth closed down on hers he stopped differentiating between sensations. She stopped being Jennifer Angell and became simply female; no longer his "Jessie" but an anonymous female, and a willing one at that, if the way her mouth opened under his was any indication.

Her rationality closed down momentarily. He was kissing her, and although deep down she knew he was not really kissing HER, her romantic soul got the best of her for a second there. So what if he was probably wishing she was Stella, or thinking she was just one of those anonymous fucks in the dark…? This was the closest she'd ever get to being actually kissed by him, so was it so bad to simply pretend for a moment or two and collect enough sweet memories to last her a lifetime?

His groping hands broke the spell his mouth had put her under. Far form the gentle touch she had always assumed he'd have as a lover, his rough groping and forceful manner were enough to clear her head. Yes, she was willing to do anything for him, but not this. The ephemeral release he'd get from it would never be enough to make up for the regret, the remorse that would surely follow. In his hands laid the power to break her; in hers, the strength to save them both and she chose to use it.

She called out his name twice, but he paid no heed; he could fool himself into thinking it was passion and not fear he heard underneath it. She held his face in her hands and softly whispered his secret moniker: the spell of delusion cracked and crushed under the weight of reality.

He blinked twice and looked at her face, and saw confirmation there. He looked down and saw what his hands, what his body had been trying to do and felt ashamed of himself and unworthy of her. He had never been prone to giving in to basal instincts, and yet here he was, pinning her down with the weight of his misplaced passion.

Her body felt the chill of his absence as he withdrew to the other side of the hallway, marveling how such a tall man could compress himself into such a tiny ball, marveling at how her body had done the same- mere inches separated them, just the hallway nothing else, but a million miles of vastness stood between them. She understood too well that it was up to her to close the chasm before the damage was permanent and the point of no return a simple memory in their past.

His eyes refused to meet hers, but his fingers instinctively entwined with hers when her hand sought his. He knew what she was doing, and he knew it should be him apologizing. He was appalled by what he had been about to do and wondered when he had lost so much contact with his own humanity that he could so easily have morphed into a monster, the very kind of monster he repudiated and chased on a daily basis.

She tugged at his hand and he finally mustered enough nerve to look at her in the face. She smiled at him, forgiving even before he had mumbled a thousand apologies. She had chosen to crop the memory, choosing to forget the parts that could harm either one of them, choosing to keep close at hand the parts she'd end up cherishing most. If she could make him do that, then there might be hope for them.

He couldn't stand sitting there any longer. He got up and pulled her to her feet as well. Unsure as to what to do, afraid he'd give in to temptations best kept far away, he stood in the hallway leading to his bedroom. If he was honest with himself, this wasn't the first time he'd thought of Jenn and lust had flared within him. She was a good looking woman, a sexy woman, and that pout of hers was simply made to be kissed. He had given the idea of actually doing so more than a fleeting thought, and he had done so more than once, but had held back, uncertain if his advances were going to be welcomed or if he was going to jeopardize one of the few honest friendships he had in his life.

She knew by the flicker in his eyes that he was trying to sort out emotions. She turned him towards the door, ordering him to bed. He gave her a questioning look; she simply stated that she'd take the couch.

He could choose to follow her lead, play pretend, and sweep all this under the rug, never to be discussed ever again. But he couldn't simply forget the way her lips had felt under his, the way her tongue had danced with his, the soft roundness of her breast filling his hands… another tremor of desire ran through him, and it must have shown in the way he looked at her, for she shivered and averted her eyes, and he knew she couldn't forget either.

She wished he'd stop looking at her like that. She wished he'd simply turn around and get into his bedroom and close the door behind, so she could go about her business of cleaning up the broken tumbler by the door, washing the surviving glass and wait for him to fall asleep before fleeing to her own place, holding herself together long enough for the fist tear to appear only until she'd reached her car, knowing the rest will follow until sleep finally found her curled in her own bed, clutching the pillow, crying out his name.

He heard her the first time, but chose to ignore her. A threshold had been crossed and he refused to step back until he was certain he wasn't welcomed. He knew she was capable of self-sacrifice, and knew that given the circumstances she'd end up allowing him to have sex with her if she was convinced that would aid his pain… even if that meant stoking hers. And he wasn't going to allow it.

He knew he cared deeply about her. There had been a time when he had seriously considered giving dating her a try but, she had started seeing someone else, and he had starting liking Ms. Bonasera's company a tad more than he should and by the time she was single again he was too caught up in the other woman to pay attention to anyone else.

And then Stella had turned him down and he went back to his serial dating days and she went back to the sarcastic come backs whenever he got teased for going out with yet another blonde and he had been sure that had been that between the two of them.

Except now he wasn't so sure. Had the circumstances been different, he'd simply tried to find out with another kiss, but not after he had almost forced himself into her, not when she was bound to believe it would be just a pity fuck… not when he knew she'd think she was just a stand-in for Stella.

Not when she'd give in to him, nonetheless.

He walked towards her and she stood her ground, uncertain as to what his intentions were, his feelings carefully guarded behind his eyes, her feelings too close to the surface to even attempt hiding out. She prayed for him not to touch him with almost the same fervor she was asking he'd do it again, the memory if his touch burning vividly in her mind and flesh.

She lifted his face to him when he stopped merely a breath away from her and he could see a thousand questions flashing in her eyes. He could also see her tremble, breath abated, waiting for him to make his move and his hand lifted to grab a wisp of her hair between his fingers. It wasn't the playful curly texture of his fantasies, but the solid wavy quality of his reality and he wondered what else he'd see for the same time if he gave them a chance.

He knew she was capable of self-sacrifice, but so was he. In was in the blood, as natural to them as breathing, both capable of taking plunges without hesitation, the issue of their own safety never one to weight their minds.

And because he cherished the past they both shared and he wished for the chance of a future of their own, he did the only thing that would save both:

"Go"

**X xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx X**

**A/N: Thanks so much for reading, please don't close the door on the way out…**


	3. Cyan

**A/N: For some strange reason, what started as a one-shot ended up in a two-parter (anyo****ne out there really surprised?). And it seems that I've spoiled my kind readers into assuming that if the title includes a number, that's the number of chapters the story is going to be! Oh well…**

**X xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx X**

She had been avoiding him and he hadn't been able to stop thinking about her. She could find a million reasons to justify what she was doing and he couldn't find but one to stop his actions. Her days were filled with million strategies to anticipate his every move, his every answer, his every thought. His nights were filled with million images derived from the few precious memories of the past weekend, of her taste, of her voice… she wanted nothing more than to put that incident in the past and continue as if nothing had happened; all he wanted was for it to happen again.

What she had had weeks, months, even years to assimilate and accept, he had done in merely days. She wondered how he could be so dense and clueless; he wondered how he could have been such a fool. She congratulated her self for having such self-control, for being able to keep her feelings so guarded, for having been able to keep the charade going on for so long. He scolded himself for being so blind, for allowing fantasy to take over reality, for not listening to the quiet voice in the back of his head.

Just friends, they had told themselves, and they both had believed the lie; for him it was easier to remain oblivious, for her it was less painful to ignore the obvious. Just friends had worked so fine so far.

When reality finally caught up with them, neither one was fully prepared for it. Multiple homicides called for multiple detectives and when each one reached the scene of the crime and realized the other one was there it had been too late to do anything about it. To those around them, nothing was out of the ordinary, the rapport between the dark haired duo still intact, the years of working together instantly settling into the ease of knowing what was expected of the other.

Deep inside, however, things were quite different. She was extremely aware of his every move, he was fully attentive to her every word. Both playing a game of hide and seek: look while the other is distracted; look away when the other turned their way. She tried not to squirm under his piercing blue gaze; he tried not to tremble when her hand touched his arm. She did everything in her power not too look for too long into his eyes, for she knew she'd end up doing the unthinkable: confessing her feelings for him. He tried his best not to stare at her mouth, for he knew he'd end up doing the inadequate: giving into the temptation of kissing her once more.

She had to know, he had to make sure. But taking the first step would require more than any of them was willing to admit, and fear paralyzed their actions, but not their thoughts. Denial was the easiest way out and they both took that road: she started believing that her secret was safe and that he was none the wiser; he started to believe that his gut had been wrong, that it had been his imagination and that she didn't have feelings for him other than the long-time friend and coworker.

Denial may seem like a peaceful river to navigate, but its depth is unknown and the undercurrents could lead them to places they'd both rather not go. How could she explain the tremor that ran down her back when he looked at her a certain way, his eyes questioning her motives, digging deep into her very soul? How could he explain the simmering in his temper when she laughed at the joke of another man, when a witness flirted with her, when she smiled for no apparent reason? How long could they go about fooling themselves into thinking they were fooling each other?

For a while it seemed they were drifting apart, and they both chose to believe it was for the best anyway. 

She began spending more lunch hours with Roberts from Vice, short chubby blond Roberts from Vice, and more late-late-late dinners with the doctor turned ME turned CSI. When dinners started to include drinks and movie theaters, the tall blue-eyed detective wanted to be happy for her, as Hawkes was a good man, an educated man, and she deserved the best. At the very least, she deserved more than a third grade homicide detective, or so he told himself.

He tried rekindling his fantasy with Stella, arranging things in such way that he spent 3 out of every 5 cases working with her. They shared drinks after long shifts and he walked her home at least once a week, saying good bye at the doorstep of her building, waiting on the sidewalk until he saw the lights of her apartment go on before heading home. He was also walking home a blond typist from the secretarial pool at Headquarters and a redheaded sales clerk that had been a witness in a case he had long closed, and sometimes he went upstairs with them instead of going home. The fact that the three women had curly hair didn't fail to go unnoticed by the dark haired woman who had seen him out and about with the other three. And she was happy for him. She knew the other two were just stand-ins for Stella, and she hoped he'd soon decide to make a move and settle down with the detective. He was a good man, and he deserved to be happy. 

Make believe lasted only a couple of months. Roberts was more into sex than into friendship and had soon lost interest after her third refusal to sleep with him. Hawkes was a darling man, but try as she might, their life experience simply didn't mesh all that well: he was all about books, she was all about streets and soon they found themselves trying to figure out how to fill in the silent gaps that got bigger and more uncomfortable with each passing date. The fact that she had ducked her head the two times he had tried to kiss her had only proved to be another nail in the coffin of their might have been. 

As for him, the redhead had wanted marriage, the blonde had wanted kids, and Stella had wanted to know when he was going to settle down with either one of them. He had refused to give in to any one of them, and soon enough he found himself sleeping alone once more.

He started questioning his motives; she started questioning her choices. He knew he wanted to immerse himself into everything that reminded him of Stella, and since he couldn't have the original he had tried to settle with the copy cats. He chose not to acknowledge the fact that he had chosen them as different in coloring as possible from the woman that actually haunted his dreams late at night. His only regret was that he had allowed both women into thinking this was the real thing and he felt guilty about that. But he rather wallow in guilt than face the feeling he had tried to push away.

She knew she was trying to avoid anything that reminded her of him: physical characteristics, personality traits, origin-wise… she knew she had chosen based on how different the other two men had been from him, and she knew she had failed miserably. Her only consolation was that she had been honest with both guys, telling them she wasn't looking for romantic relationship just then; Roberts had chosen to interpret that as an open invite for a sex-only fling, and Hawkes had seen it as a challenge of sorts to see if he could persuade her otherwise. Fortunately, neither one of them had been too keen in achieving their objective and had parted ways with her in more less amicable terms. She only wished she had been able to forget about the feelings she harbored for her tall friend.

He found himself dining more and more often at a deli merely three blocks away from her place. He always chose a booth near the corner window, hoping to catch a glimpse of the department's car passing by. He was honest enough with himself to accept the fact that he also hoped to see her walking by, preferably alone, so he could watch her without worrying about being caught. And if he was daring enough to dream, in his mind he'd already set up the scenario of what he'd do if he came face to face with her: what he'd do, what he'd say… what her reaction would be. Over and over he toyed with the idea, tweaking it here, adding a detail there... he felt like a stalker, but anything was better than the misery of sitting at his desk, pretending to be working, when she knew she was sitting merely 15 feet away and he wasn't allowed to even turn his head her way. 

She found herself taking the subway more and more often; staying for two stops past hers, getting off merely a block away from his place, and slowly making her way back to her own. She had found a million excuses to do so: the dry cleaner there charged two dollars less than the one in her neighborhood, the little Italian place in the other block was every pasta lover's dream come true, the grocery store in this corner had more variety when it came to fresh produce than the one in the corner of her house… It was lame, it was desperate, but she had even stopped going up to the CSI lab in order to avoid bumping into him… she knew the moment their eyes met she was going to be doomed and her careful façade would come tumbling down. She could deal with a broken heart, but she couldn't face the idea of loosing his friendship… she firmly believed that all she needed was a bit of more time to set things back on track.

The inevitable was bound to happen sooner of later, and when it did neither one f them was prepared for it. She was coming home from a 15 hour shift, thinking all she wanted was some food, a shower and 12 hours of sleep. He had been sitting in court for the past three days, bored beyond belief, hating this high profile case, hating the press, hating the pompous DA that seemingly believed he had nothing better to do than wait around to be called back into the court room. She had forgone her daily ritual of two more stops, heading straight home; he hadn't even noticed he had headed for the deli until he looked up and saw it. 

He had barely reached the counter when he saw her coming out of the washroom, still drying her hands. She looked up to see him gazing intently at her, and panic set in. He knew her well enough to know that she was going to bolt as soon as she grabbed the neatly packaged meal that was waiting for her at the counter. She thought she could get away with merely a friendly nod, and was hoping she could outrun him. He was quicker than her and caught her before she had a chance to reach the door. His hand on her arm was all it took. She looked up to see his pleading eyes and she was lost. He murmured just a simple word:

"Please…"

X xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx X

**A/N: A slightly different tone from the other two, but an efficient way to prolong the agony, so to speak.**


	4. Indigo

**A/N: I know I said I wanted to prolong the agony,**** but this was ridiculous! I apologize to all of you waiting for me to continue writing this. A "bump" in my muse's ways is my best excuse…**

**X xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx X**

Conceding in silence, unable to deny him, yet wanting nothing more than to be able to get away, she stayed. Amazed by her agreement, bewildered by the realization of the intensity of his feelings, awed into silence, he sat across from here. It was a mere foot, no big a distance for a man who towered over six, but it felt as vast as the deepest ocean, their silence expanding, dry as the biggest desert, deafening to both of them, yet imperceptible to those around them.

She kept her eyes glued to her food, unwilling and incapable of attempting eye contact, lest she risked loosing her soul. He kept his eyes glued to her, looking for the slightest of clues, for the smallest of openings, for the mere glimmer of a chance. When had talking to her become such a daunting endeavor? When had looking at him turned into such a sheer torture? When had life pitted them together whilst keeping them apart?

He decided to take the plunge, asking the first question. It wasn't deep and it didn't require of her to open the door to the secrets of the universe, but it was a start, inquiring how her sandwich was. Never had pepperoni and cheese been such a life or death matter, as she pondered how to answer. She was painfully conscious that, although a non-committal shrug would do for an answer, it would effectively obliterate any form of conversation. A barely whispered comment made do for the time being.

He knew it was nothing, and yet he held onto it with faith and devotion only found in those waiting for a miracle. And in a way, he was. He was hoping for a chance to make things right again between them, he was hoping for a chance to make things work between them, he was simply hoping. And hope was all he had at that moment, aware that he needed to take a leap of faith, uncertain if she'd take it with him. But he knew that anything, anything at all, would be better than this polite avoidance they'd both been faking for the past couple of weeks.

She wondered if this was merely a pause or the final battle, and if she'd come out of this war in one piece or never able to love or trust again. Was this the moment or truth or simply a happy coincidence? Years of training told her that coincidences were scarce and far between, so this probably was more like a frontal attack on his part, and she pondered if she should stay put or attempt to flee once more. She wished she could finish her sub in one bite, gurgle down her soda and be done with the pretense of having dinner and normal conversation. When had conversations with him become abnormal? What was normal for them these days?

They ate in silence for another eternity or two, slowly and mechanically chewing and sipping, breathing out of habit more than need, going through the motions of normality, wanting the meal to end, uncertainty of what would happen next slowing their actions. Their sandwiches bled mayo and mustard, the fries drowned in ketchup, their silence blurting out the words the hadn't allowed to flow freely, and their hearts… their hearts simple bled for one another in silent acknowledgment of what their brains still refused to admit.

He decided to risk everything and keep pounding at the minuscule opening she'd provided. Questions came, one after the other, and answers varied, in both speed and length. Some were mechanical, automatic, out of her mouth before she even thought about them, and although it wasn't good it was ten thousand times better than not hearing her voice at all. So what if he already knew that she had closed the Anderson case, that brass had given her a hard time for not turning in paperwork on time, that she had worked with Lindsay that morning and they had had lunch together, but only because the other girl hated eating alone or at the lab and that they had had pizza at the corner stand in 57th, but only because she didn't like any other kind of street pizza?

Little by little, she felt more at ease, and he felt more daring in his questioning. The more personal he got, the more reticent she was, and in the end she decided that best defense was an attack of her own. His inquiry on her relationship status with Roberts was quickly deflected with a sharp comment regarding the redhead salesclerk. His advance towards Sheldon was rebutted with a question about the blonde.

And before he had a chance to start talking about them, she asked about Stella. He hated the question and she dreaded the answer, but they both knew that it was something they had to clear up before they'd be able to move forward. But, at the very moment it was asked, it felt to both of them they had taken a huge step back. She had crossed the unnamed border; he had retreated behind his silence

She regretted it all, and yet regretted nothing at all. If he was not meant to be hers, she'd rather know just then and there, and not be kept guessing in his unintentional game of mouse and cat. For she was sure he was being cruel unintentionally, for he knew nothing of her feelings towards him, didn't he? If only the voice of her heart would quiet down, she'd be able to finish this pretense of dinner and run to hide in the comfort of her own place.

This was the time and the place for the truth, and she wished he would answer in all honesty. He knew that whatever he said would define their relationship forever and yet he hesitated being truthful. What if it was all a figment of his imagination? What if he had read her signals wrong, out of wishful thinking? What if the electrical current he felt underneath his skin whenever he touched her was more a matter of heightened sensibility, product of hormones, and not the result of a romantic notion of chemistry he claimed it to be?

Too many what ifs, too little time. In the end, fate took the chance away from them as duty called. As if summoned by the invisible strings of fate, their beepers went off, almost simultaneously, making them both jump as they both tried to retrieve them form their holsters. Murder waited for no one, not even for those on the brink of life altering experiences.

Murmuring their respective excuses, both fled the mine field the booth they had been sitting in represented, opting for the safety that the unknown situation out there in the real world offered them both. If asked, they'd both ashamedly admit to preferring facing an unsub than each other.

Their paths would cross yet again before dawn came creeping into the city they both loved and both hid in so well. The downside of the work they both loved and carried in their blood, the fact that no mater how much they avoided it, sooner or later they'd end up trapped together in the same room, under the same roof, unable to escape the four walls surrounding them.

His suspect had been mild and meek; a woman battered one too many times until she had finally snapped. The emotional backlash harder than everything else he'd have to do that night to put the case in the closed file, but never too far away from his mind; the type of case that made him loose faith in the human race and despair once more about his calling in life.

Her suspect had never heard about going gently into the night, fighting tooth and nail to avoid capture, making the fatal mistake of thinking that her being female was an ace he could play in his favor. The knife had wounded, Kevlar ripping, but the damage of her bullet had surpassed it. Their blood mixed on the stained linoleum, and by the time the crime scene team arrived and the paramedics left with them both, it was hard to tell where one ended and the other started. She had survived, the suspect hadn't, and the night stretched endless in front of her, guilty as charged but not to be blamed. The fact that it had been her life or his didn't lessen the fact that, in the end, she had taken his to save hers.

She hoped, irrationally, that he wouldn't find out, at least, not too soon. She needed the time to compose herself, to deal with what had transpired in her own way, and she didn't need his eyes on her, reproachful, sympathetic, worried. There had been a time where she thought she'd never be able to go one day without seeing those eyes, and there she was, wishing she didn't have to see them any time soon.

He heard the news even before he reached the station, and was at the hospital even before she arrived. He got merely a glimpse of her amidst a flurry of movement and white coats, but a glimpse was all it took to take in her ashen face and he bloodied body. His rage boiled, uncontrolled, screaming revenge through his every pore. The fact that only a corpse could answer to his primitive need to avenge his loved one did nothing to lessen the feeling, leaving all the hatred inside to turn against himself. If he couldn't blame the culprit, then he'd have to blame himself, and blame himself he did. Irrationality governed.

She was drowning in pain, and the pain was leaving her numb. She wished he could bleed out all the feelings she had for him, allowing her to start with a clean slate and a clean bill of health, but she knew deep down she'd get none. Her arm hung limply by her side, unresponsive, and the grim faces hovering about her didn't tell a different story. In a haze of drugs and adrenaline she started to believe that this attack was the best that could have happened to her; surely to be put away from active duty, she'd soon fade into a distant memory in his heart and she'd vanish into oblivion, sweet, blissfully ignorant oblivion.

The dripping of her iv and the beeping of the monitor was all the sound that could be heard inside her room as he stood in the doorway. The mere act of standing there brought back memories of another time, another love, another woman he had failed to rescue in time. The similitude between the two of them chilled his soul, both hurt at the hands of men that deserved to die just for hurting them, both having had to make a choice that ended with one dead and their soul wounded permanently, both of them having being let down by him. Him, who had failed to be there in time to save them, in time to be the one who pulled the trigger, in time for it to be his soul who ripped apart and not theirs. He had failed them both, and he hadn't deserved either one of them, not before and certainly not afterwards.

Sighing, he took one last look at the woman in the bed, at the mountain of could have beens that he had lost in a second, and turned away to face countless nights or reproach and guilt filled dreams. He was going to let her go, release her from his unwanted presence, allowing her to lead a happy and safe existence away from the curse he surely represented.

The moment he turned away, turning his back to what he so badly wanted but could never have, he heard a soft whisper, merely a breathed word, but his whole universe tilted backwards again:

"Woody?"

X xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx X

**A/N: ****Angst is good. I'd like to take the opportunity to thank those of you who have voted for this and other stories at the CSI NY Fanfiction awards, and invite those of you who haven't to check them out at the forum section.**


	5. Midnight

MIDNIGHT

**A/N: Muse seems**** to be getting her groove back! **

**X xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx X**

All his resolutions melted the moment he heard her voice. He wondered how he had thought that he could simply walk away, never to look back. Didn't he know that his heart and his soul were going to be staying behind? How had he planned on living a heartless, soulless man for the rest of his life? His whole life was lying there in that bed at that very moment, and he was too blind to see it and too scared to admit it.

Her head fell back on the pillow, too tired to do anything else. The loss of blood hadn't been death threatening, yet it had been a significant shock to her body, already battered and bruised. The combination of pain killers, antibiotics and emotional exhaustion was taking its toll and she felt it in every single bone. And yet she knew she had to fight her own body and stay awake, lest she lost her life.

He had to will his legs to take the four steps it took to reach the bottom of her bed. He couldn't will himself to go any further, his fear overcoming his heart's desires. In his mind, he could see himself reaching her side, scooping her in his arms, kissing her back to health, holding her tight until he made sure a thousand times over that she was okay. But underneath it all, lurking in the shadows, the voice of doubt rumbled: what if she blamed him? What if she didn't want him by her side? The memory of what he had been about to do a few weeks prior still haunted him… in all certainty it surely still haunted her. Of all the people she would want by her side she surely wouldn't want her almost rapist next to her.

The question prevailed, however. Why had she summoned him? Was she ready to tell him how much she hated him, how she couldn't stand his presence in her life anymore? Was it to demand a much deserved yet much denied explanation of his actions? Or was it, pray hope it would be, to give him absolution for the multiple sins he had committed against her, using their friendship as a shield and excuse? Whatever her reasons, he'd soldier them and face the music he'd written himself.

She tried hard to fight the drugs in her system and the storm in her heart and the jumble of ideas in her mind. She had accepted the need for him in her life was greater than the need of oxygen or the fluids slowly dripping into her vein, and she had accepted as well the fact that she had to tell him and learn to live with his response. When she saw, sensed, him approach her bed, a vague disconnected part of her brain wondered how her heart monitor kept beeping so peacefully, when she could feel her heart beating wildly in the middle of her chest, so wildly it physically hurt. But she embraced the pain as it meant not only that she was alive, but that she was in love… and if a stupid beeping machine could not register it, well… too bad for the machine, really.

The words she had planned on using to tell him the truth died in her parched throat, not because she didn't want to tell him, but because it was physically impossible to do so. The words he had planned to tell her died in his lips, but not because his jaw was locked; it just simply happened to be too much a burden the guilt and fear he felt. Desperation tinged their actions: both attempting to will their bodies into talking, yet neither one of them able to do so.

In the end, it was their actions that did the talking for them.

Unable to fight her own body any longer, she did the only thing she could think of and slowly raised her hand towards him. His hesitation vanished instantly, lunging forward to grab the offering of redemption she was holding out to him. She let out a sigh, barely above a whisper, and closed her eyes, a peaceful smile on her lips as she finally allowed healing sleep to take her down.

He carefully sat down by her side, never breaking the life line that connected them both. He held on to her hand with both of his, not trusting what either one of them would do if they were to be set free next to her. He was certain the lingering hand would not stay at ease for much longer, and it would seek her arm, her hair, her face and that it would take all of his willpower to prevent himself from touching her in her sleep. And his willpower was virtually non existent by then, so he clutched the offered hand in both of his and prepared to keep vigil for as long as it was needed.

Coworkers and nurses both came and went; the first ones offering words of sympathy, the second ones offering to take over while he rested or ate, and he refused it all. He didn't need the pity or the help, although he did accept a chair, if only because it meant he could sit closer to her. Bosses and doctors came in with questions and recommendations; some were answered and heeded, others were politely ignored as he kept his watch over his own version of sleeping beauty.

Of all the visitors she had, only one had stayed outside, smiling knowingly and not wanting to intrude in a moment that belonged solely to them two. The woman who had been in her place months before, in more ways than one, stood outside and felt happy for them and sad for herself. Hospitals brought memories she'd rather not revisit and seeing a fellow female detective bandaged and battered was too close to her own memories to feel comfortable about it. She knew the wounded girl would pull through, as she was tough and determined and was not one to back down from duty or danger, but she also knew that many sleepless nights awaited for her, memories unwilling to die down, haunting her dreams; visions of the same scenario with different outcomes will surely be her constant companion in the months to follow, and in the end, they would take their toll.

She looked at the man sitting by the bed and memories of him sitting by her side in a different bed in a different time came back, and she smiled a bittersweet smile. The devotion was the same, yet the timing had been all wrong. She had known how he felt for her for a long time, his eyes speaking louder than any of his words, his actions betraying the true nature of his feelings. She knew he had tried to be discreet, a fact she'd forever be thankful for, but she had known all along that he cared for her in ways she would never care for him, and it had pained her. Pained her because her affection for him ran deep, but not as deep as his for her, and she didn't want to hurt the purest heart she'd ever been offered, no matter how silently. He had never demanded anything, a fact she appreciated enormously, but it hadn't made turning him down any easier.

He was nice and noble, a good-looking gentleman with a sharp mind and an even sharper wit. In short, he was everything she, or any other woman, could want, even if it meant overlooking his flaws, for he was not perfect either. And yet, she didn't want him. She couldn't want him, and it broke her heart more than it had broken his. She was well aware of what she was letting go, but she was not ready and he was, and there was a limit to the amount of foolishness she would allow herself to believe in, for it would have been quite foolish of her to pretend she was ready when she knew deep down she wasn't and might never be ready again.

She also knew of the quiet affection the woman asleep in that bed felt for him. She also knew that if she had accepted his offering the injured woman would hold no grudge or ill feelings towards her because all she wanted was his happiness and nothing else mattered. The woman outside the window knew all about loving in silence, loving from afar, standing aside so the man she loved could be happy with another woman, a woman that was not her, and yet remain by his side as the loyal friend, even if it meant the scar would never totally heal and her heart would bleed all over again every now and then.

Both women shared that unselfish treat, and in her eyes it made them kindred spirits, sisters in the painful art of loving and not being loved back. If she was the right woman for him, it was him and only him who'd be able to decide that. In the meantime, the friend she'd first and always be would stand outside the room looking in and smiling and praying for his happiness. Silently, the woman with the curly hair left.

Inside the room, the physically battered woman continued to sleep, her body mending and strengthening. The emotionally battered man kept on his vigil, his resolve strengthening as well. The bond between them had always been a solid one, the time spent together inside that small hospital room slowly turning it into something that neither time nor men would be able to destroy easily.

Outside the room, a dark figure was standing in the same spot that the curly woman had been minutes before. Dressed in black from head to toe, glasses shimmering in the corridor lights, cap covering his head, he stood out against the sparklingly white surroundings, yet he remained aptly indescribable, just a man of average height and average built. The man kept looking at the couple inside the room and he slowly raised his arm towards them, his hand cocked as if carrying a gun. After a few seconds, he pulled the imaginary trigger:

"Die"

**X xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx X**

**A/N: Please go to the forum section and check out the CSI NY Fan fiction Awards and vote for your favorites… keeping my fingers crossed for the Wenches!**


	6. Periwinkle

PERIWINKLE

**A/N: This is for Marialisa, who said I should give my idea a try. ****Therefore, all mail should be addressed to her, as she said she'd personally deal with the consequences! For Shar, too, hoping it'll lure away of the corner.**

**X xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx X**

The man was furious. It should have been easy, so easy, but it had all gone so terribly wrong. And now his brother was dead and the bitch had lived to tell the tale and the sonofabitch that had caused his family's downfall was still happily lusting after her, following her around like a meek little lamb after his own Mary. If you want something well done, you have to it yourself; never truer words had been spoken and he intended to do just that.

He'd overheard the doctors saying she'd be released from the hospital in a couple of days, and that gave him plenty of time to figure out how to go about doing it. He'd waited three years for this moment; a few more days meant nothing to him.

Inside a hospital room, she kept on sleeping, regaining conscience for very brief periods of time. Whenever she opened her eyes, she'd find him there; the first thing she'd see would be his blue eyes, all seven shades of them. For she knew his eyes and she knew the emotions they betrayed even when the rest of him was shielded against external intrusion. And what she saw in his eyes on those brief moments of conscience made her heart sing.

He had stayed by his side, unable to move; patiently waiting for the moment she'd wake up and smile at him. In the last few hours his life had shifted in its axis: now all he lived for was that smile. He knew her smiles, all two dozen types of them, and he loved every single one, but specially the one she has reserved solely for him and him alone. So he waited patiently, hour after hour, for the moment where her eyelashes would flutter and see him, and the smile that would invariably follow… the smile that made his insides melt and his heart soar.

The next day she was alert most of the time, and by the third day she was all ready to go. Doctors had wanted to keep her in for just one more day, after all, she'd taken quite a blow to her head, but she'd have none of it. She refused medical assistance in her home, and grudgingly accepted to be released under his care. She had attempted to weasel her way out of that one as well, but he had been adamant about it: either she stayed with him or she stayed at the hospital. She knew it was pointless to argue with him when he'd made up his mind.

They had talked plenty those past two days, but always avoiding the issue of their feelings, and the drive to her place to pack was no different. He helped her get out of the car and climb up the stairs, and then he helped taking down a suitcase from the upper part of her bedroom closet. He drew a line, however, at helping her take out her clothes, deciding to give her some privacy. She asked him to fetch her shampoo from the shower and he went into her bathroom. He opened the curtain with certain trepidation, fearing a multitude of jars and bottles and other strange paraphernalia like all his previous girlfriends had had. He was more than relieved when he saw only three lonely bottles.

He picked up one and sniffed it. Neither fruity nor flowery, just clean and he liked that… it reminded him of her. The body wash had a sweeter smell, like ambrosia, and he was slightly ashamed of the sudden rush of blood inside his body. He popped the lid closed and intended to go back into the bedroom when he saw the medicine cabinet above the sink. His curiosity got the best of him and carefully opened it, not really meaning to pry, but eager to know more about her than he already did. Mouthwash, toothpaste, aspirins, band aids… no birth control in sight, but, then again, he didn't keep his in the bathroom either.

She called his name and he quickly closed the door, his pulse racing as if he had been caught doing something that he shouldn't. He thought that he was safe, until she asked him, given that he was already perusing the contents of her bathroom, to bring her the box of tampons. He felt his cheeks turn red as he grabbed the offending package, feeling embarrassed and yet chastising himself at the same time… he was too old to be acting grossed out by something as normal as a woman's period, God knew there had been a couple of times in his life where he had eagerly awaited for it to show. She was gracious enough to try and hide her knowing smile when he handed her the object he'd brought from the bathroom, and she quickly finished packing.

He took the suitcase in one hand and hers in the other and led her down the stairs towards the car. She was pleasantly surprised by his gesture, and willed her heart to stop beating so madly, reminding herself it meant nothing beyond his fiercely protective nature. An independent woman raised among an all-boys family she had always known she was quite capable of taking care of herself, and yet appreciate the gentlemanly gestures some men showered her with, and him was no exception. He helped her into the car and drove towards his own home.

A couple of minutes later, a car that had been sitting in front of her building drove away as well, keeping a safe distance between the two vehicles. The driver of the second car was not worried about loosing them; after all, he knew where they were going and he could very well drive there using another route if he felt like it. However, since he knew opportunity only came knocking once, he kept on following them.

The next two days were mostly routine for them both: she wasn't allowed to go into active duty until the stitches were removed, and he was assigned mostly simple cases so he could spend as much time possible at the precinct. For the first time in months, they both clocked out after merely 8 hours of work, which felt even stranger than living together… or not acknowledging what was going on between them.

The man with the glasses had not been idle. He now knew seven different ways to get to his apartment and had already planned four different escape routes. But when he was done with the planning, he began to grow restless. The opportunity he had been seeking had not presented itself yet and it was slowly driving him crazy with anticipation. Impatience made him feel bolder, and he'd gone as far as walking inside the precinct and coming face to face with not just one, but the two of them. She had a beautiful face, with doll-like features; he had an imposing presence; and they were both absurdly in love. Had circumstances been different… but the man wasn't one to go for sentimentalism… if anything else, their feelings only reinforce his determination.

Saturday morning he drove her to the hospital to have the stitches removed. She joked the whole time, and he cringed on the inside, his hand absently holding his side, phantom pain of his own past stitches haunting him for a moment there. Doctors checked her over and finally signed her release for active duty. They both had the weekend off, and neither one of them was in a big hurry to get her back to her own place.

They rode back to his home in silence, but this one was different from the other silences they had shared in comfort. It was a pregnant silence, waiting for one of them to finally approach their pending conversation. They stopped to pick up some Chinese and a couple of movies, all fragile pretensions of normalcy, and arrived to his place without having exchanged over a dozen words. The meal was eaten with a half heartfelt discussion of which movie to watch first; his choice or hers, and she gave in to his logical explanation that an action packed movie would keep them awake after stuffing their faces silly whilst a heavily packed drama would certainly put them to sleep in ten minutes flat.

Less than twenty minutes into the movie he had lost all interest in the action taking place on the screen and she was pretending to watch it as well. She had had no heart to tell him that she'd already seen it and he had been too stubborn to admit that he didn't really felt like watching a guy blow up a gazillion innocent people while trying to escape form the police. Real life was more than enough for him, but the romantic comedy she had chosen was bound to kick open many doors and he was not yet ready to face what lay behind them.

So she pretended to have her gaze fixed on the screen and he stopped pretending to watch everything but her until it became far too obvious for both of them. She turned her head to face him, her dark eyes silently demanding an explanation. He opened his mouth to speak, his blue eyes shining uncertainly. She held up her hand, her fingers pressing against his lips and something inside of him simply snapped in place.

He had wanted to apologize for having taken advantage of their friendship. He had meant to apologize for almost taking advantage of her. He needed her to listen to his confession about how blind he had been and how he had finally realized just how deeply he cared for her. He wanted to do all that, but in the end, he didn't do any of it.

He simply took hold of her hand and kissed her palm.

Her sharp breath intake was far more audible to him than the explosions taking place on the screen. Gently holding her arm with his other hand, he pressed another soft kiss on her wrist. He could feel her pulse beating wildly there, and he licked it, bringing another gasp from her. He continued to slowly kiss and lick his way up her arm, and by the time he'd reach her shoulder her eyes were closed, her breathing labored and she was biting her lips to suppress a moan.

He stopped his ministrations and she opened her eyes, questioningly. He let go of her arm and got off the sofa. He quickly crossed the room to turn off the TV and the lights on the ceiling, leaving only the end table lamp on before returning to the couch and kneeling in front of her.

Down below on the street, across from the building, a man wearing glasses was sitting inside his car. He saw the lights dim and couldn't help but smile. In his opinion it had taken those two damn fools long enough to reach this point. It was a waste, really. They had waited too darn long, wasted to much precious time. But, then again, neither one of them actually knew that their time was up.

He had continued to kiss her arms, her neck, her face… everything but her lips. She had tried to touch him, to kiss him back, but he'd not have any of it. He held her hands prisoners between his, and he continually moved away from the reach of her lips until she finally surrendered control. His face hovered over her less than an inch away. He was dying to kiss her, dying to show her just how she made him feel, but he wouldn't do anything without her approval. His eyes sought hers, desperately looking for a clue, an answer. Her eyes spoke clearly, but she voiced her sentiment just the same.

"Yes…"

**X xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx X**

**A/N: One more chapter, ladies and gentleman. Remember to check out the Fanfiction Awards over at the Forum section!**


	7. Turquoise

TURQUOISE

**A/N: So we've reached the final chapter. Thank you for staying for the whole ride!**

**X xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx X**

Two men had set their minds about doing it. One was determined to avenge his family's downfall at the hands of the NYPD. The other one was determined to show her just how deeply he felt for her. One was set on punishing, the other one, in erasing all doubts from her mind. One was looking for revenge; the other one, for redemption.

One made his way up the stairs calmly, taking his time. The other one also took his time, kissing his way down her body. They both had a defined mission in mind, both set on completing it until they were satisfied with the results. That their final objectives were completely different was of no relevance at that point; neither one of them would stop what they had already set in motion.

The man in glasses had no problem at all getting inside the apartment; its occupants had been to busy with each other to remember to lock it. He couldn't help but to chuckle at their eagerness and lack of precaution. He studied the room before him, bathed in the soft light of the corridor: an empty pizza box sitting on the breakfast bar, two barely touched glasses of wine sitting on the coffee table, DVD boxes strewn around the floor and the trail of discarded clothes leading to the bedroom.

Inside the bedroom, his hands were running all over her torso, trying to memorize every single line and nuance of it; the way her ribs moved under her flesh as she breathed, the way her nipples responded to the ministrations of his lips. He had dreamed of this moment a thousand nights over, but everything paled to the reality he was experiencing just then.

The man inspected the apartment with detached curiosity; he had no real interest in knowing how they lived and yet he felt slightly disappointed as they failed to live up to his expectations: if they were the corrupt pigs he had assumed they'd be, their surroundings didn't do much to show for it. No luxury or unnecessary adornment, but cozy and homely as far as he could see. No lack of electronic appliances, but nothing he wouldn't find in the average American home. A noise coming from the bedroom interrupted his musings.

Her moans rose and fell like prayers escaping her lips in rhythm with his kisses. She breathed his name as she sucked in air to breathe as the turmoil of emotion inside of her reached its climax and erupted. He had never been enamored of his name, but hearing it in her voice, in that tone, at that precise moment, made him feel like it was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard.

The man cursed his luck. He had expected that, after two hours, they'd be done with their business and fast asleep. He secretly admires his enemy's stamina, as he couldn't remember the last time loving in his own bed had lasted more than half an hour. He was faced with a choice: he could either wait around until they were both asleep or he could forget about killing them today and keep his vigil until the next opportunity presented itself. Weighing pros and cons, he decided to wait them out.

He knew he was lost the moment her hand slid down his chest, followed by her mouth, her hair trailing close behind. He tried to stop her, tried to tell her there was no need for this kind of retribution, tried to hold back… but soon, it was her name he was murmuring on hoarse whispers, entwined with blasphemies and divine pleas. And he pleaded, and begged, unashamed, until he couldn't stand it anymore, he couldn't bear to not be inside of her, a part of her, anymore. He pulled her up, and two became one as their mouths hungrily fused together.

The man had climbed out into the fire escape, and was silently smoking is third cigarette. The first moments he'd been outside he had been worried about being seen, but then he realized that if he stayed in the shadows no one would be able to distinguish him. The location was a vantage point, save for the acoustics. She was a screamer, all right, and his moans would wake the dead… from the sound of it, they were having the time of their lives, and in a way, he considered himself lenient in having allowed them to have this last piece of happiness before dying.

Sleep soon overcame them, sated and happy to be in one another's arms. Outside, the dying glow of a lit cigarette signaled the end of the waiting period. Quietly slipping back inside, the man approached the door of the bedroom where his victims lay, unsuspecting. The time for lenience was over.

She hated leaving the comfort of his arms, but she simply couldn't go to sleep until she had gone to the bathroom. She slid off the bed as quietly as possible, trying not to disturb him, and pondered if she should slip something on or not.

The man reached for the gun. She reached for the door.

The man had not expected this sudden turn of events. Not quite ready to shoot, he found himself staring into her eyes. They opened first, quickly followed by her mouth as she let out a scream of unexpected fear. The man had to act quickly, his presence now discovered. No time to attach the silencer to the muzzle, he shot her once between the eyes.

His instincts would normally kick in quicker, but the emotional and physical exhaustion had taken their toll and it took him a bit longer than usual to react to the sound of gun shot.

The man stepped over the dead woman's body. He sensed more than saw the figure of the man rousing from the bed and he quickly fired two more shots. The man inside the bedroom slumped to the floor. The man with the glasses knew he'd be better off if he verified if the cop was dead, but he was sure the gunshots had alerted some neighbor and he wasn't sure how long he had before someone came by to check what was going on. Given the fact he had just killed two cops, it was in his best interest to leave the scene of the crime as soon as possible.

Her lifeless eyes stared up at him, a muted green protest over her own death. The man register the look, but he didn't feel regret. He simply did what he had to do. On the way out, he noticed a photograph hanging on the wall and his subconscious registered something he had missed. He looked at the photo in disbelief and almost ran back to the body of the woman to make sure… he knew he was running out of time, but he had to make sure…

A noise startled the man and he looked up to see the cop holding a gun to him, identifying himself, demanding he dropped his own gun. The man chastised himself for not checking if he had gotten it right the first time around, but he guessed he could still finish the job, and lifted his gun.

The shot rang throughout the apartment. A gun fell to the floor and blood began to seep and then drop, as the pain became unbearable and consciousness was lost. The man's last coherent thought was that, for a dead woman, she was one hell of a shot…

Flack and Angell closed in, guns still trained, and managed to hear his last word:

"Mistake…"

X xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx X

**A/N: Not the kind of ending I was expecting ( I had originally planned to actually kill Woody and Jessie) but the best I could come up to respect the style of the rest of the piece. All hate mail and death threats should be directed to Marialisa, whom I'm blaming for this (you DID encourage me to take the roads less travelled hun!). **


End file.
